by Mike Reuther
Drawing closer to the band shell, I saw there was some action after all. A small group of punker teenagers stood around one of the benches that faced the band shell. They were a sight, all of them - dangling earrings, bad haircuts with Halloween colors, and clothes claimed from a flea market. I figured them all to be about fifteen or sixteen. A girl, her blonde hair chopped in a Mohawk and wearing black bikini briefs and what looked to be a man’s shirt, sat on the grass, her legs spread out, jabbering with one of her tribe. The two of them were sharing a joint.
Passing on through the park, I began to run the facts of the murder through my mind. From some aspects the killing seemed to be one screaming with leads if not clues.
Still, just who the hell was Lance Miller other than this aging ballplayer trying desperately to hang onto baseball? Did his connection to Mick Slaughter have anything to do with him turning up dead at the Spinelli Hotel? How about Jeannette? An ex-wife could very likely figure as a suspect. Or her lover, Giles Hampton? Certainly, he could have good reason to want Lance out of his life, especially if Lance had been trying to get back with Jeannette. The Millers couldn’t be dismissed as possible suspects either. And what of Lance’s teammates? All sorts of jealous rivalries evolved among athletes.
Add to the mix a police department that was either stumped or being unusually close-mouthed about the crime, and you had all the elements of one mysterious case.
Gallagher’s contention that the killing had been the work of a drug dealer looking for a fix didn’t sit well with me. Was my old police chief buddy hiding something? I couldn’t be sure.
Unfortunately, I hadn’t known Lance Miller so I was working from a disadvantage from the very start. But even those who’d been acquainted with the guy didn’t seem to have much of a handle on him. I had no illusions that he was any type of saint. From what I could tell he’d had a healthy appetite for the ladies. That in itself has the potential for leading to some messy situations. Apparently the guy had been a loner but a loner whose acquaintances if not friends weren’t exactly of the strongest moral character. Like Mick Slaughter. If the hotel deskman was right and my cop’s intuition right as well, Slaughter had ties of some kind to organized crime. At the very least I felt sure the guy had connections to some small network of thugs or criminals. Since leveling him with that sucker punch I had half-expected to get an unwanted visit from some of his goons.
I had been walking for about ten minutes, another late summer rain just getting started, when I found myself standing in front of Myrna’s. There were only a few crusty souls inside. I wasn’t in the mood for much company anyway so I ducked inside and out of the rain.
Myrna was pushing a broom behind the bar, appearing, as always, weary and fed up with the world, the stub of a cigarette hanging from her mouth. I took a seat near the window and almost immediately, Myrna came by with some steaming coffee. Without a word she plopped my cup down on the table, causing some of the coffee to spill over its rim. I raised my cup in a mock salute to her as she trudged away.
I sat there for a few minutes watching the raindrops from outside the window plink off the sidewalk when the strangest sensation came over me. For some reason I felt I was being watched. I took a slow sip from my cup and allowed my eyes to go around the room. There was a guy over near a booth playing one of those poker machines, and over at the bar a couple of geezers were conversing. Obviously, none of them was even aware of my presence. Over near the men’s room, on the other side of the room, I spotted him. Scarface. He was at a table sitting with some other character, who, like Scarface, looked liked he’d been coughed up from the gutter. He was a hunchback with scraggly gray hair down to his shoulders. I had him figured for about thirty, give or take a few years, despite the silver mane. His face was smooth and round, free of the ravages of time. Nothing about the guy made him distinct from the rest of the derelicts to be found in this part of town.
The two of them sat across the table from each other talking in a whisper. Or rather, Scarface talked while the hunchback nodded his head. I had a feeling something was going down with the two. It was a bit warm to be wearing jackets, and I was pretty damn sure this pair hadn’t donned coats to make some fashion statement. Scarface’s coat was one of those leather jobs you often see on the backs of bikers. The hunchback had a military jacket, one of those khaki coats you can pick off the rack of any Army surplus store.
I walked right past their table and into the men’s room. Instead of closing the door though, I left it open just enough to get a good peek at the pair. What happened next caught me by surprise. Scarface threw a bill on the table, and the two of them headed for the door. I didn’t waste a moment.
By the time I hit the street they had disappeared around the corner. An alley running between Myrna’s and an abandoned store front gave them an escape route. It was little more than a walkway really. I doubt a single car could have made it through. As I entered the alley I could see it wasn’t much better for pedestrians. It was a dark, narrow passageway, and I needed a flashlight just to see twenty feet ahead. I knew better than to tail a couple of derelicts down an alley. Unfortunately, I had to be reminded of just how stupid I can sometimes be.
The blow caught me on the side of the head, jolting my brain like a zap of lightning. My world went fuzzy, but only until my back hit pavement. For a second I tasted vomit and caught the rotten aroma of the whole stinking alley. Two pairs of feet were circling me. I didn’t want to move.
“See what he’s got on him.”
It sounded like Scarface. I felt some weight on my lower back, then a hand began to furiously pat different areas of my prone body. It was hardly a professional job, and I couldn’t help but recall this bad joke back during my old days on the force. It had to do with a transsexual cop who’s working vice in a gay bar and is forced to pat someone down. The punch line eluded me though.
I was still being patted down when Scarface said, “Grab his wallet, and let’s get the fuck out of here.”
I didn’t have my wallet on me. But that didn’t stop the hunchback from trying like hell to find one. It cost him. He was off my back and kneeled beside me patting down my legs when I sprang up and let him have it with a single, well placed kick to the groin. The next thing I knew Scarface was swinging a club like Barry Bonds swatting at a hanging curve. I ducked under one of Scarface’s roundhouse cuts and tackled him. The club went one way, and the two of us toppled against a brick building wall and onto the clammy pavement.
Scarface was fast and wiry. But I had about forty pounds on him. As he tried scrambling away I managed to tackle him a second time. Hunchback, meanwhile, grabbed the club and moved toward me like he wanted to split open my skull.
“Drop it Scum or I’ll remove that lump in your back permanently.”
That stopped him. He considered his options for a few moments before allowing the club to fall. He backed up a couple of steps, then a couple more before turning and running up the alley.
Sometimes you can bluff ‘em. Sometimes you can’t. That left me alone with Scarface. I pulled him to his feet and backed him against the bricks. He didn’t resist at all.
“So what sort of business were you pair of Rotarians transacting?”
“I don’t have to tell you nothin’,” he sneered.
“No. But I have some friends who might be interested.”
I reached into his coat pocket. He tried to pull free, but I pushed him up harder against the bricks. As I suspected, he had a bag of crack on him. I held it up for us both to see.
“Why don’t we talk huh.”
Right away, he questioned my authority. I told him the police might be interested in his drug dealing activity. That caused him to chuckle. Go ahead. Tell them, he said. “Them guys won’t touch me. They’re some of our best customers.”
“You’re lying.”
“Yeah. You think so? Talk to your buddy Gallagher. I’m sure he’s dying to tell you about some of his purchases.”
“Joe Gall
agher? Smoking crack? Don’t make me laugh.”
“Okay Jack. Have it your way.”
“Fine. How about I just bounce you off the pavement a few times?”
“Come off it Jack. I can help you if you give me a chance.”
I tightened my grip on him, then thinking better of it, let him go. I decided to let him talk. First, I asked him about Mick Slaughter. He claimed he knew him only by name.
“What about Lance Miller?”
“I only seen him around the Spinelli.”
“You didn’t know the guy?”
“I told you. I only seen him around the Spinelli. I know his ex-wife though.”
“Jeannette?”
“That’s her. And her fag boyfriend.”
“Hampton?”
“Yeah. My meal ticket.”
“Meal ticket?”
“You got it Jack. I was Hampton’s errand boy, you might say. I got him lots of things he wanted.”
“Like drugs?”
“You got it Jack. Marijuana, speed, rock candy. I got it all for him.”
“Hampton doesn’t strike me as the hardcore party animal.”
“The stuff wasn’t for him. He liked to have it around to feed his guests.”
“Guests?”
“Mostly the students he liked to poke.”
“Huh?” It took all kinds. Giles Hampton, luring young flesh into his den.
“How does Jeannette take all this?” I asked.
Jeannette? Hell. She don’t care. She’s set up just fine with Mr. College Professor. Nice place to live. No more working at Jay’s Lounge.”
“The gay bar? She worked there?”
“Shit. We both worked there. Hey. Don’t get me wrong. Me and Jeannette’s both straight. Hampton’s the one who swings both ways.”
“Hold it. This is getting complicated.”
“What. You thought he was after all those sexy asses up there at the college. Whew man.”
“Maybe you better start over.”
“Okay. He come in Jay’s one night about half in the bag. Went on about being this teacher at the college. Insisted he wasn’t gay, even though he was in the place. Me and Jeannette heard that stuff before. Anyways, he stuck around till closing time and then invited us to his place to smoke some weed. Next thing you know, I’m this guy’s gofer and Jeannette’s playing house with him.”
“I see where you fit into the picture. But Jeannette?”
Scarface shrugged. “I told you. The guy swings both ways. He was nutty about her. Still is as near as I can tell. Besides, a guy like that having around a woman looks like Jeannette. The way he had it figured, everyone had him pegged as a stud.”
“Jeannette. I take it she and Hampton weren’t exactly making it in the bedroom?”
“Not that the guy didn’t try. Hell. He’s horny for her all right. Hell. He’s horny for everyone. He’d put the moves on you if you gave him half a chance.”
“Never mind that. I want to know what Jeannette was doing for amusement.”
“What do you mean?”
“For grins and giggles. No. For sex limp dick?”
“Hey. Don’t worry about Jeannette.”
“What about Lance Miller. Did she mention anything about getting together with him?”
Scarface’s good eye began to dart about.
“Well … “
“Don’t know anything about that. And that’s the truth.”
For a few moments we stared at each other in that dark alley. Finally, he stuck out his hand.
“What’s that?” I said.
“My money. How about it.”
“No money.”
“No?”
“No.”
He began moving away up the alley. “Okay Jack. Just remember. I know people. You’re going to wish you paid.”
Back at my apartment I checked the messages on my answering machine and changed out of my pants. During the tussle with Scarface and Hunchback I’d gotten the pants wet and dirty, and I’d ripped a hole in the knee the size of a first baseman’s mitt. There was a call from Emerson asking me to meet him over at the ballpark at nine o’clock. I looked at the clock. It was well past nine, nearly ten. I placed the call and let it ring seven times before hanging up. I poured myself a few fingers of Scotch and went over to the couch where I sat staring at the blank screen of my broken television set. I suddenly felt restless as hell. After an alley scrap I should have been ready for a collapse. But that was the way it was with me. A little action always put me that much more on edge. That old feeling of walls closing in gnawed at me. The apartment felt lonely. Too lonely. Outside the wind began making a fuss. A stray leaf smacked up against the window. A cat whined out on the fire escape. I sipped slowly from my glass, not wanting to get drunk or anything close to it. I figured to finish off this one drink, maybe have another, then climb into bed.
I slipped off my shoes and reclined on the couch, balancing the drink on my chest as I stared up at the ceiling. I began thinking of Pat. Our relationship, or whatever the hell you called it, wasn’t perfect. And in a lot of ways. That was okay. The last thing I needed was a woman with three kids to worry about. The question is: Did I love her? Who in the hell knew? More and more she had been crowding into my thoughts. She took the edge off things for me. That was for damn sure. But then, so did alcohol. I did know I wasn’t looking for anything long term. I’d been married once. And though it had been a brief marriage, I’d been in it long enough to know that chasing the bad guys didn’t mix well with maintaining a loving relationship. Maybe I needed her. Maybe we needed each other.
Again, who in the hell knew?
I drank off the rest of my drink and poured another, then, thinking better of it, poured it right back into the bottle. I walked over to the window and peered out. The street was empty. All the riffraff had been chased inside by the rain. The wind was moving around the branches of trees across the street; back out on the fire escape the cat let out a God-awful whine. I turned away from the window. Over on the coffee table the bottle of Scotch cried for attention. I stared it down for a moment or two. Then I headed for the kitchen. As soon as I hit the kitchen I knew I wasn’t alone. Sometimes you can smell the trouble coming. This time though, my instincts were just a moment slow to kick in. The next thing I knew I was on the floor.
Chapter 9
When I woke up everything was dark. The back of my head felt like someone with a jackhammer was drilling away. I sat up, and the dark kitchen began to revolve. I thought the hell with that noise and fell back to the floor. My world was spinning as if I was reliving my worst hangover. I just stayed there on the floor trying to get a grip on this crazy merry-go-round. After a while, my brain called a halt to this bad ride, and I managed to get to my feet.
My eyes weren’t ready for the rude wakeup call they got when I hit the light switch. Whoever had skulled me had done a job on the apartment. What little food I had around was scattered about the floor. The refrigerator was on its side, and my stove had been pulled away from the wall. Plates and cups were strewn about everywhere.
Out in the living room someone had spit out and had for lunch the sofa. Stuffing from the thing was scattered all about. I was lucky I didn’t have much in the way of possessions. Other than the sofa there was little else disturbed. A table in the corner had been left untouched, some chairs merely overturned. My lousy television set rested on its side with the back panel torn off. A lamp from the table was knocked over but apparently undamaged. Someone had been looking for something. For what, I didn’t know. It wasn’t money apparently. The contents of my wallet were scattered across the living room floor including an expired credit card and a pair of tens I’d been carrying around. I still had my Scotch too. There it sat on the coffee table, like a lone sentry amidst all the chaos. Now I really needed a drink. And I figured I had a pretty good excuse this time. By the clock on the wall it was 11 o’clock. Amazingly, I had only been lost to the world for about an hour.
&
nbsp; I was just pouring myself that much needed drink when the phone rang. It was Emerson. He said he was still at the ball park. Could I come? I wanted to know what was so important that it couldn’t wait.
“Give it to me over the phone,” I said.
He said that wasn’t possible, that I had to see this for myself.
Sometimes I forget I’m in Centre Town. In this burg the buses stop running at seven and getting a cab at night can be like trying to order a hamburger at a health food joint. When I called the city’s one cab company I was assured a car would be by in ten minutes. I waited twenty maybe thirty minutes for my ride that never came, the pain in my head getting worse. Then I popped a couple of aspirin, washed them down with another drink and hit the streets.
I got maybe a block along Fourth Street before a dark-colored Porsche pulled up ahead of me at the corner. Two black kids, each of them no more than fifteen, suddenly popped out from a store front and approached it. One of them leaned into the car’s window. After a few moments the Porsche pulled away, and the two kids disappeared down one of the dark, seedy side streets. The Porsche, meanwhile, continued up Fourth Street. Watching its taillights disappearing, I tried to recall where I’d seen that car before. Early in the summer most of the drug-dealing activity had been confined to a few blocks east of here near the river. What had once been a nice neighborhood was being surrendered to the punks. Concern gave way to action. Meetings were held. Finally, a small army of anti-drug combatants, a vocal and organized group of citizens, swung into action. Using bullhorns and some hired hands from Philly with experience in fighting street crime, they ridded the one neighborhood of the evil element. But what had been one neighborhood’s problem became another neighborhood’s headache. The dope peddlers had waited till the heat was off and set up shop here.
